


The Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name

by Hilarita



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-10
Updated: 2005-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hilarita/pseuds/Hilarita
Summary: Mrs Longbottom goes on a journey.
Relationships: Mrs Longbottom (Neville's gran)/OFC





	The Love that Dare Not Speak Its Name

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](https://violet-quill.livejournal.com/profile)[violet_quill](https://violet-quill.livejournal.com/)'s [The Voices and Vaginas of HP Women](http://www.livejournal.com/users/violet_quill/119726.html) Challenge.

I didn’t expect it really. To find love at fifty, not long after you’ve lost another husband. It was a kind of love I didn’t think was for me. And now I wonder how I lived without it.

It didn’t last long; just the nine months I spent in France, eighteen months after my husband died. I’m not one to get sentimental, but I was a bit dragged down by things then, and I had a bit of money put away, so I went off to stay with an old schoolfriend in the Deux-Sevres while Frank was away at school.

It was a beautiful autumn, and while my hostess was out at work (Livilla was a distant cousin of the Dumbledores and worked in a local office for the Ministry of Magic) I wandered the countryside. It looks quite a lot like England there, only not so bleak as Lancashire, nor so cold. The traces of ancient wizards are everywhere.

I met Marie Dechelette in Livilla’s home first. She was ten years younger than I, and very chic. I’ve never had the money to put into clothes, but I’ve always dressed tidy. We got on quite well; she’d worked in the Resistance during the Second Muggle War, when we were fighting Grindelwald, and I’d been in Ministry Intelligence. It was very pleasant to chat, but I thought no more of it.

But then I saw her during my walks. She had no job at that time; her husband wanted her to stay at home and have another child. She was quite frank about this, but laughed about it, and devoted her time to being my chaperone.

I say being my chaperone but really I could have done with one. Though it wouldn’t have been nearly so much fun.

She took me to Poitiers. It’s a fine old town, but hard for walking. We sat down in the shadow of the basilica, and she leaned over and kissed me.

We’d known each other for but a few weeks then. It seemed forward, but it didn’t seem wrong. My mother had told me it was wrong, but I reckoned I was old enough to work out right and wrong for myself. I think I was right.

She tasted of melons, and faintly of the wine we’d drunk at lunch. I reckon I was a bit drunk the whole time I was out there. It was warm, and I left my corsets off. They’re not the best thing for sight-seeing, you know.

It was after one lunch time, a week or so later, when we were walking through fields that it first happened. We sat down for a rest under a tree, and she leant over to kiss me again. I was used to this by now, and the heady feeling of arousal that I’d felt before, with my husband. She laid a hand on my breast, and I got that tight feeling between my legs. I hadn’t expected to feel that at my age. Nor with a woman, neither. She looked at me, and I nodded.

I’d never done anything like it before with a woman. She unbuttoned my blouse, and pushed my bra down. She suckled on a nipple, and it felt sweet and gentle, not brutal or demanding, as my husband and my baby son had been. She kissed all round my breast, and reached behind to undo my bra.

She was a pretty woman, her dark hair swept up in a chignon similar to my own. Her blouse was edged with lace, and I unbuttoned it and unhooked her bra, to reveal a pair of breasts still firm. I knew what to do with those. I smoothed my thumb across a nipple, and watched her start, and laugh.

‘Veux-tu le faire? Vraiment?’  
‘Si. Pourquoi pas?’

My French wasn’t that good, but I could get by, and we never had to say much. She undid my skirt and slid it down to the ground, then started in on undoing my garter belt. Her nails scratched me slightly, but she didn’t tear my stockings. I was almost holding my breath. I felt quite unlike myself, like a romantic young girl, the sort in romance novels.

We spread our skirts out on the ground over the picnic blanket to cushion us, and she unrolled her stockings unselfconsciously, taking care not to ladder them. We’d been brought up in the days when you had to repair your own stockings, and even with magic it’s a tedious job. She reached out tentatively and touched the waistband of my knickers, then pulled them down. She leaned over and kissed me, and it was warm in the sun and fragrant with summer flowers.

I felt free, out of time, as I slid my hand down her firm flesh, feeling each knob on her back, her rounded buttocks. She sat above me, and slid her hand down my thigh, into my private places. I was ready for her, but she did not slide her hand inside, merely toyed with me until I was gasping for breath. Then she removed herself from reach, and bent her head to me. She kissed my belly, but then she slid her tongue inside me. No-one had ever done that before. It was warm and wet and more alive than anything I’d ever felt.

She gave me the little death, and in return I bent hesitating lips to her. I started at the neck and watched her pant and writhe, hissing with pleasure and pain as I nipped her breasts. Then I dipped my neck and tasted her womanhood. I never liked doing this to men much, but it didn’t taste as bitter, and the sighs were much better. I slid my tongue inside her warmth.

It didn’t last long, as I said. About four months into my stay her husband got her pregnant. We met nearly every day for walks, usually to some private place where we could pleasure each other. Then she miscarried, and the mediwitch couldn’t save her. I returned to England nursing a new grief. I loved Marie, and she taught me many things.

I’d always enjoyed sex, though my husband wasn’t often around; I’d never disrespected our marriage bond. But I found that attraction isn’t bound by gender, and I loved Marie just as much as I’d loved him. I felt alive again with her, and I didn’t have to worry and be practical. I’ve had a lot of worry in my life, but I’ve always carried on. Our Neville came to me, tying his tongue in knots, telling me that he was gay. I could see it hurt him to tell me, but he was walking out with Harry Potter so he had to say something before the newspapers did. He was quite surprised to find me so understanding.

It doesn’t matter. Just so long as you know who you are, and stick to it. Our family have all been Gryffindors, never ones to turn down a new experience. Even our Neville. Even me.  



End file.
